Grimm shifted his weight, his hoof striking the cobblestones with a sharpclack. Snow White froze, glancing up at the battlements. A guard’s helmet glinted as he turned. She pulled Grimm deeper into the shadows of the stable overhang, her mind racing.Think,she commanded herself.You know this castle better than the queen. You know the dirt, not just the gold.
Her eyes darted to the far corner of the stable yard, obscured by a pile of rotting hay and old barrels. The Midden Gate. It was a narrow, low archway used only by the stable hands to cart manure out to the compost fields beyond the moat. It was never guarded because no one in their right mind would use it—it was filthy, forgotten, and half-overgrown with nettles on the other side.
“This way,” she whispered, tugging on Grimm’s reins. She didn't mount; the arch was too low. They crept through the darkness together on foot. The smell near the gate was sharp and pungent, but to Snow White, it smelled like hope. She reached the heavy wooden door, iron-bound and ancient. There was no lock, only a rusted drop-bar on the inside. Her hands, slick with sweat, slipped on the cold iron. She gritted her teeth and shoved upward. The bar groaned—a sound like a dying animal in the quiet night.Scrape. Screech.
“Who goes there?” a voice called from the wall above. Snow White froze, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She pressed her face into Grimm’s neck, praying he wouldn't snort. A pause. “Probably just rats,” another voice muttered. “Wind’s picking up.”
She waited five heartbeats, then ten. When no alarm sounded, she wrapped her cloak around the bar to muffle the sound and heaved again. With a shudder of rust, it gave way. She pushed the door. It stuck in the mud, then swung outward just enough to create a gap. “Come on,” she urged softly.
She slipped through first, mud soaking her boots immediately. Grimm followed, dipping his head low, his sides scraping the stone frame. He hesitated at the narrowness, the darkness beyond. “Trust me,” she whispered, tugging gently. “Please.” He stepped through. As soon as his hindquarters cleared the arch, Snow White pushed the door shut behind them as best she could.
On the outer side of the wall, tall wild grass brushed Snow White’s ankles. The forest hunched in the distance, dark and waiting. She pulled the reins over his head, letting them rest on his mane, and reached her left toe up to the stirrup. In one quick, quiet motion she jumped and swung herself up onto his back. “Now go,” she whispered. “Please.” He moved quietly across the blackness of the open field until they reached the edge of the forest.
They plunged into the trees, branches clawing at her cloak, leaves whipping her cheeks. The moon, when it broke through the clouds, painted everything in stark silver and deep black. Grimm picked his way through roots and stones, sure-footed even in the dark. Snow White clung to him; despite the cold her body was quickly slick with sweat—not from effort but from nerves. Every scrape of a branch against her bare legs as her ragged chemise tore made her flinch. Her clothes, already thin, shredded further—fabric catching and ripping, baring skin to the night air. She tried to wrap the cloak tighter around her core. Wind knifed her thighs. Twigs scratched her calves. A bramble caught her arm and left a line of stinging fire along her skin.
She didn’t dare stop. Behind them, far away now but still too close, the castle loomed in her mind’s eye like a crouching beast. Above, clouds shifted. A sliver of moonlight speared through the treetops, glinting on Grimm’s black coat, on Snow White’s pale knees where the cloth had given way. The forest pressed in on all sides. Trees stood like sentinels, branches woven into acanopy that let only scraps of light through. An owl called, a low, mournful note. Something small scurried in the underbrush.
Snow White’s ribs ached with every inhale. Her throat burned. The taste of fear and adrenaline and something like exhilaration coated her tongue. She was cold. She was half-naked. Her hair whipped her face. Her thighs burned from gripping the saddle. She had never felt more alive. The rawness of the night mirrored the rawness inside her. All her illusions had been stripped away as thoroughly as her dress. What was left was a girl on a horse in the dark, fleeing the woman who had given her life and then tried to snuff it out. She had no map. She had no plan. She only knew that the danger in the forest was preferable to the danger in her mother’s smile.
Backinthecastle,Liora woke to an odd stillness. The morning bells had not yet rung, but some instinct tugged her from sleep. She lay in the dimness for a moment, listening. She slipped from bed and pulled a robe around herself. The braziers from the night before had burned low, embers winking faintly. She crossed the room to the window and peered out. The courtyard lay quiet. No unusual movement. No smoke. No sign of an attack. Her unease didn’t ease. She left her chamber and padded barefoot down the corridor toward Snow White’s room.
From down the hall she could see the key still in the closed door. She remembered the feel of it in her hand, the small satisfaction of the click. She turned it and pushed the door open. She was shocked to find the room was empty. The bed was rumpled but unoccupied. The comb lay on the floor where ithad fallen, its carved vines unremarkable now. The little window stood open, curtain stirring in the cold air. Liora stepped closer. She looked out. The drop to the courtyard below stretched, dizzying. On the stone lip just beneath the sill, faint scuffs marked where a foot had slipped, then found its hold. Farther down, on the lower roof, a tile lay cracked.
Liora’s lips peeled back from her teeth. “Hunter!” she shouted, the name snapping from her throat like a whip.
He appeared in the corridor a moment later, sword belt slung hastily over his nightshirt, hair disheveled. “Majesty?”
“She’s gone,” Liora said. “Snow White.”
He blinked, sleep clearing from his eyes. “Gone?”
She pointed at the open window.
He moved to the casement, peering down. The set of his shoulders shifted as he understood. “You want her found,” he said quietly.
“I want her dead!” Liora said. The words came out cold and steady. If Snow White was snow, Liora was all ice. “I want her gone from my story once and for all.”
“What do you mean?” Hunter asked slowly. “Kill her?” he asked, half jokingly.
Liora laughed, a brittle sound. “Don’t grow a conscience now, Hunter. Not after everything you’ve done.”
He flinched. “Snow White is…” He hesitated. “She grew up under my watch. I taught her to ride. She is—”
“Like family?” Liora finished, mocking. “Spare me. Family is whatever we say it is. Today, she is a threat. You will hunt threats. That is what I keep you for.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The memory of Snow White’s face when he’d dragged her down these halls last, the fear and stubbornness in her eyes, flickered across his mind. Killing enemies on the field had never troubled him. This feltdifferent. “Majesty,” he said carefully. “There are other ways. We could bring her back. Lock her away. Send her to a convent—”
Liora’s expression hardened. “Do you think I am a fool? I already tried to kill her, and she escaped! As long as she breathes, she is a knife pointed at my back.”
“What did you do?” He swallowed.
“You know what I’ve been growing in the gardens. All my vials, herbs. I made a poison, but it must not have been strong enough,” she lamented. “I just want it done the old-fashioned way—the easier way. Oh, if only I were a man and were taught to wield a sword. The only weapon I’ve ever had is my body.”
He swallowed. “My queen, I… I don’t know if I can—”
She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Can’t?” she repeated softly. “Or won’t?”
He held her gaze for a long, taut moment. “I won’t,” he said at last. The word tasted like treason.
